


Bloodline

by MjornaLokesenna



Category: Halloween (2018), Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: !978, 2003, Adoption, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood, David Loomis - Freeform, Death, Drug Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father/Daughter Incest, Gore, Halloween, Halloween II - Freeform, Jonathan Wynn, Love, Michael Myers Speaks, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Movie: Halloween H20: 20 Years Later, Multi, Murder, Other, Parenthood, Recreational Drug Use, Sex, Suicide Attempt, implied rape, sam loomis - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27147353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MjornaLokesenna/pseuds/MjornaLokesenna
Summary: Michelle Stafford always knew there was something different about her. Her general disregard for human life, the anger and drive she feel. Something always told her she didn't belong where she was. The murder of her parents (which totally wasn't her. Nope. Not at all.) She discovers the truth, she was adopted. From the US. Her world unravels in the best ways when she learns the truth of her parentage and what she truly is. Now she has an excuse... now she can be who she really is. What she really is. And it's all with the help of her dear daddy.(Cross posted with FFN under the name Blood is Thicker than Water)
Relationships: Michael Myers/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 14





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Please read all authors notes, and disclaimers as they will include important information about the contents of the chapter, trigger warnings and important plot points.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Halloween or any of it’s characters or components. They are currently property of Blumhouse Studios. Michael Myers, Laurie Strode and any other recognizable character were created by John Carpenter and Debra Hill… or the writers from Blumhouse. Michelle Myers as she is portrayed in this story has been my own original character for nearly twenty years. I will not give permission for anyone else to use her, and any unauthorized use will be dealt with. Please be considerate, I created her a long time ago, she is my fucked up babygirl and I am very protective of her. 
> 
> In 2014, I began posting this story titled Halloween: Blood is Thicker than Water. As my writing style and ideas have changed drastically in this time, I decided it would simply be easier to rewrite the entire damn thing. I can’t count the number of times I’ve rewritten this, but I think I have finally worked out all of the kinks. The response for BiTtW was overwhelming, and I thank all of you so much for the time you took to write reviews, send me PM’s and most of all… read the story. You’re all so awesome, and I sincerely hope that I can make you just as happy with this newest iteration of Michelle and Michael. 
> 
> The release of the 2018 retconning sequel has finally shaken loose all of the cobwebs, and forced me out of self-imposed hiatus. But, also thanks to that, I’ve decided to fuck with the timeline to an extreme. As much as I loved 2018, the one thing that bothered me was the removal of the familial aspect between Michael and Laurie. For me, that’s always upped the intensity of the story. The fact that Michael waited and waited for fifteen years to go after his sister is infinitely more terrifying than him just deciding to escape one day and slaughter a bunch of babysitters. So for the sake of this fic, Halloween (1978) and Halloween II (1981) will remain in tact. I’m choosing to disregard H20, and Resurrection, and will be incorporating elements of 2018, into this story. Which will be taking place in place of Resurrection in the year 2002. 
> 
> If you followed that, A+, if not… I’ll try to clarify as I write.

October 31st, 2001  
Stafford Manor  
London, England

Michelle Stafford, heiress to the Stafford Steel Mill, stood next to the french doors of her third floor bedroom balcony. Tonight was her twenty-third birthday, but rather than celebrating, she stared out into the darkness of her parents estate, a bottle of Irish whiskey clutched in her blood stained hands. Her black tipped nails drummed against the glass in a soothing rhythm. The police had just left, and her actions that night were slowly sinking in as she thought back over the course of her birthday evening. 

She’d come home at the insistence of her mother. The vile woman wanted Michelle home from Uni so she could throw an extravagant party for her ‘baby girl’ and try to make herself look like a decent human being. It was a farce, of course… Emmalie couldn’t have cared less about her daughter, if she’d ever have even tried to begin with. 

For as far back as Michelle could remember, her parents hadn’t been much of her life. Her earliest memories always involved her ever rotating staff of nannies and governesses. She couldn’t even recall a conversation with her mother before she was eleven. Em had decided that it was her job to explain to the scared, young girl, what was happening to her body. It hadn’t been a pleasant conversation, and had been the thing to plant the festering seed of hate for her parents in Michelle’s heart. 

Her father wasn’t any better. If she thought hard enough, she might be able to recall a handful of times her father even spoke to her. And most of those moments were more him screaming at her than anything else. She’d fled as soon as she turned 18. Their existence and hatred of her no longer hurt, instead it triggered a response that scared the fuck out of her. She wanted to kill them. She wanted to dig her manicured black nails into their eyes and push until their gray matter oozed out. She wanted to slit their throats, to tear out their windpipes and vocal chords. 

Michelle simply wanted them dead, and only at her hands. 

That’s how she had gotten here tonight. Oh, she’d come home, all happy and excited to spend the weekend with her parents. At least, that’s what everyone at school had been lead to believe. There would be a grand party, and the next day she would go shopping with her mother in London. Oh she couldn’t wait. 

Of course, that wasn’t the case at all. Michelle only had one thing on her mind when she arrived home that Friday morning. It had been exceedingly easy, in hindsight, and made the woman wonder why she’d waited so long. 

The servants had all been out, gathering supplies and tending to the grounds for the party. Michelle went for her father first, he’d been in his study, a room Michelle had always been expressly forbade from entering, but she’d invited herself in that afternoon.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing in here, girl?” He’d snapped at her, having looked up when the sounds of her heavily booted footfalls crossed his threshold. Michelle had ignored him for the time being, instead choosing to examine the brown, wood paneled walls that were covered in cheap reproductions of classic art. He always did so love showing guests his ‘authentic’ pieces. So many ‘first edition’ books were lined up on the shelves… the sad truth was that most of them were just covered glued on to wooden blocks. The room stank of cigars and scotch, along with the overwhelming stench of a slimy human being. Her father had always carried the slightest smell of perpetual body odour, owing to his wide, fat frame. 

Harold Stafford had always been a squat, fat man. His nose was too wide for his face, and tipped with a bulbous shape… the perpetual red shade of it had always conjured the image of radishes in Michelle’s mind. His eyes were small, almost pinpoints in his large face. And for the entirety of Michelle’s life there was never a single strand of hair on his head, but his eyebrows were threatening to overtake his entire face. 

Her mother was much the same. Short and plump in a rather unpleasant way. Emmalie carried all of her weight right in her gut. She had short, thin brown hair that she always kept tucked under a kerchief. She wore too much makeup, to try to enhance the features she didn’t have. If plain had a face, it would be Em Stafford. 

Michelle was the polar opposite of her parents. She stood five foot ten, and was very lean. Her hips and bust tapered into a thin waist. Where her parents were ruddy and olive skinned from their supposed Italian ancestry, Michelle was very fair, pale even, her mother often compared her to sketch paper. That tease was only intensified as Michelle began filling in her pale skin with tattoos. All dark imagery and symbolism that served the dual purpose of self-expression and thoroughly pissing her parents right off. 

Where as her father had no hair, and her mother the equivalent of a thin birds nest, Michelle had a head full of thick, blue-black locks. It fell down to the small of her back like a midnight waterfall. The most defining difference between the young woman, and her parents was her eyes. Harold sported the most underwhelming shade of blue, while her mothers were a babyshit green shade. Michelle’s eyes… were black. No, not a dark gray or deep blue. They were entirely black. Her eye doctor had made quite a big deal about it… stating that he had never seen anything like it. 

After a thorough examination of the unremarkable room, Michelle slowly turned to her father, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side. 

“I asked you a question, Michelle!” He snapped, beginning to struggle to get out of his armchair. She didn’t respond, there would be no more wasted words on him. She bent down, extracting a long knife out of her boot, she turned it over in her hands, admiring it for a few moments, before raising her eyes to him with a dark smirk. 

Harold went pale, fighting more against his own weight to stand up. His mouth opened to scream, but Michelle was on him, slapping her palm over his lips to stifle any sound. 

Those black eyes stayed fixed on his, as the blade drew across his throat, she savored the sound of his death gurgles, with glee shining in her eyes. Keeping him down was so easy, not that the fat fuck could move much to begin with, but Michelle had always possessed a sort of wiry strength that was completely disproportionate to her frame. He bled out slowly, but she loved every second of it, until the lights went out in him. 

Michelle continued down the hall, smiling at the works she’d already done on her mother. The woman was beyond drunk, and had no issue accepting the pills that her daughter handed to her. Michelle always had the best drugs… it was the one thing the two of them ever got on over. 

“Oh you’ll be flying, mummy.” Michelle said, smiling as Emmalie tilted her brandy to her lips to swallow the capsules. Em was left to die, while Michelle cleaned herself up. Washing off the blood, burning the clothing she’d worn, disposing of the ashes. 

The tragic story of the murder suicide at Stafford Manor would be all over the news by six a.m. And the poor heiress, only twenty-three years old… left orphaned. Michelle smirked at the thought, as she turned back towards her bed… she’d need to rest to keep the act going tomorrow. 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Ian Windsor had been Harold and Emmalie Stafford’s attorney for thirty years. In those three decades he had often wished for their demise. They were two of the most dense, obnoxious, and toxic human beings he had ever known. Not only were they vile, they had no idea how to handle anything in their own lives. Almost every day he was dealing with some new grievance, or issue of theirs. Honestly, he would have left several years ago… if it hadn’t been for their daughter. 

The last thing that Ian had ever wanted to do for them was drag a child into their mess, but his hands were rather tied… he knew if he didn’t do it… someone else would. At least if he stuck around, he could ensure the child was properly cared for. He’d taken great pains to only hire the best help to tend to her. He’d also been funneling a considerable amount of money into a fund for her, fearing that they would never alter their will to benefit her. Fortunately, they had. She would be entitled to everything. 

And now they were dead. Honestly, he felt nothing. The entirety of the world would be better off without them. Ian, wasn’t entirely sure if he bought the murder-suicide story, there had been something very off about Michelle for the past several years. He still had a job to do, however… and if she had killed them… that was entirely her business. The less he knew, the less he could be implicated in himself. 

A maid had left him in the dining room to go fetch Michelle, and Ian took several moments to be sure he had all of the paperwork. 

Going over it all hadn’t taken long, Michelle knew what to expect with all of the official paperwork. The accounts and such were familiar to her. It was the last envelope that he was dreading. The papers inside would likely throw the girl for a loop, but she deserved to know. 

“Now, Michelle, this last bit isn’t anything financial… it’s more of a personal matter for you. You parents had never intended to tell you, but I feel you have the right to know.” 

Michelle raised an eyebrow, Ian was usually rather sure of himself, seeing him off kilter was… strange. She gingerly took the envelope and opened it. Dumping the few papers inside out onto the table. The first was from an adoption agency. Her eyes shot up to him. 

“The fuck is this?” She asked, looking over the paper at him. Ian let out a suffering sigh. “In 1977, your parents decided they needed to adopt a child… they claimed they were lonely…” Another sigh, and Ian reached for the bourbon that Michelle had brought out for them. “I found you in a foster home in Illinois in ‘79. You were six months old at the time.” He reached out, picking up the other, smaller sheet on the table. “This is your birth certificate. There was no information to be found on you… other than this. It was issued at a mental hospital.”

Michelle felt very little at this, it didn’t take a genius to figure out she didn’t spawn from those two morons. She scanned the paper, a woman named Ingrid Schneider was listed as her mother. But her father’s name had been redacted. “Why wouldn’t he be listed?” She said, looking at Ian.

Well, at least she was handling it well… “I honestly don’t know. Every question I asked only lead to a dead end. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

“Can you at least tell me which hospital?” 

“I believe it was called…. Smith’s Grove.”


	2. Confirmation

November 16th, 2001  
Smith’s Grove  
Illinois

Michelle stood on the sidewalk just outside of Smiths Grove Mental Facility. The wind was chilly, forcing cold to seep into her skin even through her thick coat. She’d often heard that winters in the State’s Midwest were comparable to England, but honestly this was the coldest she thought she had ever been, but she couldn’t decide if it was actually because of the weather, or the reason that she was standing there.

After Ian Windsor, her family’s attorney, had left her home on November 1st, Michelle had launched herself into figuring out exactly where she came from. Granted, there wasn’t much to go off of, however fortunately, the internet existed. Well, it would have been fortunate, had it turned up anything. Hours of Ask Jeeves and Yahoo searches turned up nothing of use. Only that Smith’s Grove Hospital was the notorious facility that had housed, subsequently lost and readmitted Michael Myers, and then links and stories pertaining to that. Everyone in the world knew that story, and it didn’t help her in the least. She had, however, managed to dig up a phone number. The woman she’d spoken to was the head nurse, and had worked there for thirty years. However when Michelle asked about a baby being born there in 1978 the woman had clammed up and refused to speak anymore. 

Two weeks later, armed with only a birth certificate and the name of a doctor, Michelle boarded a flight for New York City. From there she would catch an adjoining flight to Chicago, and then rent a car to drive herself the hour to the hospital. It was so much effort, and honestly if it weren’t for the shady way everyone was behaving, she probably wouldn’t care at all. She’d have made her way back to university to continue drinking her way through a journalism degree. But the way that nurses voice had changed while speaking to her, triggered something inside of her. Suddenly this had become her singular mission. 

Her boots crunched over half frozen leaves as she made her way towards the front entrance. The door gave with a slight push, leading her into a enclosed foyer. A plain wooden bench sat next to a coat rack in front of a yellowing white wall. The building held the slightest stench of mildew, and looked like it hadn’t been updated since the sixties. Across from the bench, was a windowed reception area, through the glass Michelle could see a mop of curly red hair. She tapped, snapping the young receptionist away from her magazine. The girl fixed her glasses before opening the window.

“Help you?” The receptionist asked, annoyance sounding in her nasally voice. 

“Yeah, I’d like to speak to Doctor Jonathan Wynn, please.” Michelle snapped back, trying to control her temper, but the general American rudeness she’d been faced with over the past few hours was weighing on her, and this ginger bitch was not helping. 

Without a reply, the receptionist picked up a phone. “Someone to see ya, Doc…. kay. I will. Thanks.” The receiver snapped down, and with a sickening sweet smile, and a tone that damn near cost her her tongue, the woman said. “Someone’ll be right down to get ‘cha.” With that the window slammed shut, and Ginger-Bitch went back to her Cosmo.

Michelle’s fist clenched, but a deep breath helped her sit down. She fiddled with the paper in her pocket, while listening to the sounds around her. Someone was having a rough day, or lifetime, judging by the sounds of the screaming and yelling floating around the hallway. For one, idle, moment she realized she was sitting in the same building that currently house the Midwest Boogeyman. That thought made her chuckle to herself and shake her head. 

After what was probably fifteen minutes, but may as well been an hour from how long it felt, some footfalls came towards the gate that separated the reception area from the rest of the hospital. Michelle looked up to see a younger man striding towards her was tall and thin, with sandy brown hair and blue eyes. He couldn’t have been any older than thirty, and the fake smile on his face was in deep contrast to his tired eyes. “I am sorry for the wait,” He said, speaking in a refined upper Midlands accent. Michelle wasn’t expecting that, but it was refreshing to hear something more akin to her own voice after the midwestern drawls of everyone around her. “Doctor Wynn will see you now, Miss…?”

“Stafford… Michelle.” She said, running her fingers through her hair to push it aside and away from her face. Also to avoid shaking the hand he’d extended to her. She just didn’t like touching people. 

“Ah, well… my name is David Loomis, I’m an intern here working under Doctor’s Wynn, Loomis and Sartain.” David said, politely. In all honesty he didn’t know what to make of her. She was striking, that was for sure, but he wasn’t sure if it was her or the fact she was sporting about eight different pieces of metal in her face. Or the thick black that surrounded her eyes. She looked like she belonged in Westminster in the 80’s, but sounded as if she were from Chelsea. “If you’ll follow me.” He said, and lead her through the gate, where they were flanked by two security guards. 

Michelle remained quiet as she was lead through the halls to what she assumed would be the office block. The floors were grey from years of being walked on, and the walls weren’t fairing much better. Most of the light fixtures looked to be at least as old as she was, or likely older. And just the overall feeling of the place was… odd. The few orderlies they passed in the halls looked as broken down and beaten as the patients they were leading around. 

David lead her to a set of double doors, pushing them open and gesturing for her to enter. It was an office, dimly lit, but seeming in better shape than the rest of the building. The wood paneled walls reminded her of Harold Stafford’s office, but she could assume the books shelved here were real. 

Behind the polished, mahogany desk sat an older man, what was left of his hair was stark white. Thick glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and he wore a rather expensive looking black suit. The man, who she saw was in fact Doctor Wynn, based on the nameplate on his desk, was writing something down. “Thank you, David.” Wynn said, finally looking up at the two of them. “I believe your father could use some assistance in the maximum security wing.”

Michelle watched the color drain from David’s face, but he nodded and backed out of the room. “Please sit.” He said, and Michelle sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk. Upon further inspection the desk, and chairs were scuffed and cracked, much like everything else she’d come across here. “I am Doctor Jonathan Wynn.” He said, introducing himself. Though he sat with his back straight and eyes trained on her, she could easily tell his alertness was mostly a front. The deep lines in his face spoke of a life of stress that had lead him to be thoroughly exhausted. 

“Michelle Stafford.” Michelle responded, before she extracted the birth certificate from her coat pocket. “Doctor… I need your help with something. My parents passed away a couple weeks ago…” She was sure to look appropriately distraught at the thought, “Our attorney gave me this,” she said, handing him the paper. 

It happened so quickly that she would have missed it had she blinked. A look of pure dread and fear flashed across his face. Her recovered quickly enough, but she caught it, her eyebrow raising. 

This wasn’t a moment Jonathan Wynn had ever hoped he would have to encounter. If she could have waited just another month he would have been retired, and wouldn’t have to be doing this. His mind flashed back to that morning, on October 31st, 1978.

They had just managed to round up the last of the patients that had managed to wander themselves out onto the road and down to the nearby town. All except for one, that is. It had taken the entire night, and then he’d had to deal with Loomis. The man had been a wreck when he found out the one patient they hadn’t been able to recover. Sam had torn out of the parking lot like a mad man, just as Wynn was being paged back inside. 

He was needed in the medical wing, where one of his own patients had been held for the past four months. Ingrid was a nice girl, but deeply disturbed. When she had arrived at the hospital in 1976 she was severely sleep deprived, with enough morphine in her to take down an elephant, and covered in blood. It had taken Wynn four months to find out exactly what happened. She’d murdered her boyfriend and his family while on a very bad trip. Unfortunately, though she showed signs of improvement, she would never be able to leave. When the drugs had finally left her system, it was clear she was suffering from schizophrenia. It was extreme, and would require constant treatment. 

And to top it all off, in March of 1978 it was discovered that she was pregnant. No one knew how it had happened, or with whom, and Ingrid definitely wasn’t talking. It appeared she’d already given birth when he arrived. No one had known she was even in labor, she’d been so quiet about it. The nurses only knew it had happened once the child started crying. 

When Wynn arrived in the room, he was met with a mess of blood. Ingrid was dead, and the infant had been taken to another room. He left the nurses and orderlies to deal with Ingrid, he went to check on the child. A nurse was just wrapping the little thing up in a blanket. “It’s a girl…” she said, sadly. The nurses had loved Ingrid, though she had her dark moments and often refused to sleep for a days at a time, it was hitting them all rather hard. “She said her name is Michelle.” The nurse turned to him, holding the little one close. Wynn had leaned in to look at her, and nearly felt himself thrown back when her little girl opened her eyes. They were black as death. 

As the day progressed, and news started rolling in on the escapades of their escaped patient, Wynn had been interviewing several of the staff that had tended to Ingrid over the past few months. He didn’t learn anything he didn’t know. Ingrid was sweet, and insane, but stayed clear of the other patients. Except for one…

And now here he sat, across from the baby that he had held twenty-three years before. She was looking at him with a cocked eyebrow. Wynn took a very deep breath, and busied himself for a moment, pulling a bottle of whiskey out of his left hand desk drawer, along with two glasses. He poured them both to the top, and sat one in front of her. 

“I’d like to try my best to discourage you from pursuing this any further, but even as a newborn you were stubborn…” He said, giving her a half assed cheers before taking a deep drink from his glass. Sitting here, now, looking at her, he could see it clear as day. Built like her mother… but every other feature was identical to him…

“So I was born here?” She said, ignoring the alcohol for now. Wynn had seemed to completely deflate, and now clearly wanted nothing more than to be as drunk as possible. 

“Yes… you were.” Wynn replied solemnly. When Michelle had entered this room moments ago it was obvious he was a man well into his twilight years, but now he looked positively ancient. His skin was almost grey, and the lines in his face were deeper. And oh, did he look tired. If Michelle were capable of empathy she might feel bad, obviously her presence here was distressing him. But she had come way too far, both literally and figuratively, to be dissuaded at this point.

“Doctor,” She said, refining her accent a bit in an attempt to portray a much calmer self than she felt at the moment, “I can see this is unpleasant for you. Though I can’t imagine why, but please understand I’ve already been through a lot. My parents weren’t the greatest people… but I never wanted to lose them. And now…” She breathed out a sad sigh, looking down at her hands. “Now I found out that they aren’t even really my parents. No one has been willing to talk to me... and I just want to know where I came from.”

Jonathan looked at the girl in front of him, he felt for her, truly. His own intern spent every moment of the work day with his own father and didn’t even really know him. “I understand your pain, my dear, I do. But I’m afraid the answers you’re seeking will only serve to hurt you more. If you’re sure, I’ll tell you… but I am begging you to reconsider this.”

“I have to know.” She replied, not missing a beat.

Before responding, Wynn poured himself another drink and downed it in one go. He was just delaying the inevitable at this point, he knew, but… fuck he didn’t want to have this conversation. “What do you know about what happened here the night you were born?”

“You mean the Michael Myers thing?” She said, it was the only claim to fame this place had after all.

He nodded, swirling around the dregs of alcohol in his glass. “I was called away just after the morning meeting… your mother.. Ingrid… had just given birth to you. She… didn’t survive, unfortunately, somehow her uterine wall perforated and she bled out internally. She did… name you however.”

Michelle didn’t react to that, no reason to be upset over a woman she didn’t know, though she supposed the fact she never would know her sucked. “And my father?”

The silence was deafening, the way it descended on the room and took hold tight. Michelle didn’t like it, it made her squirm a little in her chair, her annoyance rising. “No one really knows how it happened…“ Wynn started, a haunted, terrified look settling on his face, “He’d never shown any inclination… never so much as moved without provocation. But… the nurses assumed it was your mother’s doing.. She was always far more interested in him than he her.”

“Can yeh jus’ say what yer’ trying not to say?” Michelle bit out, her accent always deepend when she was annoyed… or angry… or drunk. With an exasperated sigh, Wynn withdrew a file from his desk and tossed it down in front of her, jostling her still full glass of amber liquid. Confused, she picked it up, reading the name ‘Myers, Michael A.’ 

Her eyebrows shot up to her forehead, as she reached out to pick up the file. Her heart was hammering in her chest, there was no way he was telling her that he was her father… right? 

Flicking open the cover was all the answer she needed. Staring up at her was a photograph of a man, with pale skin, and black eyes. The timestamp in the corner told her this photograph was only six months old, making the man in it forty three years old. There was a sprinkling of gray in his blue black hair, there were some lines around his black eyes… one of which showed signs of partial blindness. She was looking at a photograph of an unmasked Michael Myers. 

But more, she was looking at her own face. Older, and male… but it was her face. 

“The resemblance is uncanny…” Wynn said, picking up her untouched glass, holding it out for her. She snatched it, and downed it in less than a second it seemed. Poor girl… he had warned her, yet still felt he could have done more to prevent this pain.

However, for Michelle, so many things were clicking into place… so much about her suddenly just made sense.

“Where is he?” She asked, finally raising her eyes to meet the Doctor’s.


End file.
